Of Islands and Men
by Quiet
Summary: Sherlock returns to London after three years, only to discover that John Watson died in a plane crash in the Caribbean two years ago. Meanwhile, John's cracking coconuts and shearing his beard with a sharp shell, wondering if he'll ever get off this bloody island. Eventual Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**a/n: **Another story, another fandom. Let's see if I can get back in the swing of things, eh?

**disclaimer: **Sherlock is not mine. Wish it was.**  
**

* * *

_"People think they know you. They think they know how you're handling a situation. But the truth is no one knows. No one knows what happens after you leave them, when you're lying in bed or sitting over your breakfast alone and all you want to do is cry or scream. They don't know what's going on inside your head-the mind-numbing cocktail of anger and sadness and guilt. This isn't their fault. They just don't know. And so they pretend and they say you're doing great when you're really not. And this makes everyone feel better. Everybody but you."  
― William H. Woodward, Jr. _

* * *

_**Of Islands and Men**  
_

Chapter One

* * *

There was a surreality to losing someone - a sort of detached and muddled feeling that banded around his chest and _squeezed_. It wasn't as if he hadn't been touched by death before. He'd been to war. There had been more than one fallen comrade to pray over. He had no parents to speak of; dead for years now. Grandparents, a cousin, his good friend from primary school dying in his teens - he was no stranger to grief or the stages of grieving.

But none of it prepared him.

Not the pain of seeing his mother, still and waxy looking in an ornate box. Not the horror of holding a friend, hands slippery with his blood, as the soldier begged God and John to save his life. Not even his bloody dog Rupert getting hit by a car in front of him when he was twelve could give him an edge over _this_.

Nothing experienced could help harden him against the foreign, monstrous grief that gnaws on his heart like a retched beast. Nothing could even begin to scratch the surface of the aching emptiness he now felt lodged beneath his ribs.

As for those who would support him in his grief - well, there really weren't a whole lot of people he could count on. The only family he could claim was an alcoholic sister who was too wrapped up with her own demons to pay his any mind, and when she did call him, it was merely to nag. He had casual friendships, but none of any real count. And when it came down to it, he'd only ever experienced one life-defining relationship, and the end of that particular association was one he feared he'd never recover.

So for the time being, he managed on his own. Except for every Tuesday. Then he'd pay his therapist a fat hourly rate to manage for him. And when he wasn't seeing his therapist, well, she'd prescribed a few at-home attendants.

Currently, he had taken so many Xanax that he had bypassed 'calm' and ended up at 'narcotic nods.' He blinked his eyes rapidly as he caught his head again. Consciousness came in spurts, then slowly bled away with the bizarre half asleep occurrences that were normal for the highly medicated (slowed heart beat, disorientation, slight nausea, painfully lucid dreams of - ), only for him to jerk his head from it's slow descent and start the cycle over.

His mobile rang, and John Watson snapped his eyes open. He fumbled for the device, his movements sluggish despite the sting of urgency he felt. His heart held itself still in anticipation, like it was wont to do every time his phone made so much as a tentative beep, and when his eyes alit on the number that called, his heart stumbled back on track, as if it had never missed a beat, every pulse sending_ pain_, _pain, pain_.

Stupid. He was so_ stupid _to even think for _one second_ – Fuck. He had to get it together. He glared at the name on his screen, his eyes going wobbly. It would be worse if he ignored it. She hadn't called him in weeks.

"Hel-lo?" greeted John, voice breaking mid-word. He cleared his throat, almost embarrassed, but mostly indigent at the scratchiness of his voice. He hadn't spoken much in the past few days. Didn't mean his voice had to fail him like that though.

"John?"

_Utter shit. _She sounded sober.

"Heyyy, Harry. It's been awhile. How are you?" He tried to sound normal, cheerful even, like she had just caught him in the middle of watching the news or in the process of making tea, and felt somewhat confident that he'd pulled it off. Either that or it was the Xanax convincing him.

Chances she'd suspect him to have been sitting on the floor staring at the wall for close to forty five minutes?

Thankfully slim (how could she possibly even begin to guess? Only someone like – ), but he still felt strangely exposed. Perhaps it was because he'd gone for so long without talking to her. Nevertheless, there were still behavioral conventions he'd adhere to when it came to dealing with his sister – words that would comfort her, keep her off his back, make her (God forbid) not drop by the flat and "check up" on him, as she had been in the habit of doing so at odd times for _weeks_ during her last stint into sobriety. So he made sure he sounded okay, normal, like he was coping just as well as –

"…_That_ didn't sound forced at all," she scoffed.

And sometimes Harry called when she was sober.

"It wasn't. I'm actually glad to hear from you," he said, as sincere as he could manage while_ not_ rolling his eyes. It was a childish impulse.

"Yeah right. You should know better than to think I buy that for a – "

"Harry, I'm fine," he said, talking over her words. "Did you really call to berate me? I haven't heard from you in a month and this is how you start it off?" he asked, voice firmer, losing some of the false cheer now that he realized it really was going to be one of _those_ calls.

"Well, I had some things to take care of, but I'm here now, and that's what matters. I can tell you're not doing any better. You don't have to pretend John, and frankly I'm tired of it. I'm your sister, for God sakes, and if there was anyone for you to come to for help, it should be me."

At this point in the conversation, John does roll his eyes. What was this? A bloody intervention? Too little too late.

"Harry, it's coming up on a year. Don't you think it's a bit late to be throwing out those sodding words? Why not after I lost my job even? Why now?"

She hesitated. John realized then that it must have been the influence of all those twelve-step meetings she'd had to have gone to over the past month to be making this much effort straight out of the blue.

"Because I'm worried about you, John. Yes, it's almost been a year, but you aren't moving on. Not at all. It's like you've just stopped. And that's not my brother. I want to help you. Please let me help you. Come stay with me for a little bit. I'll help you find another job. I'll – "

He cut her off, his fingers twitching in agitation against the rough grain of the hardwood.

"Where's this coming from all of the sudden, eh? It's Sunday. Day of rest and all that rot? So give it a _rest_, Harry. Didn't we decide to leave the whole thing alone last time you started in on me about all this? I'm okay. The grieving process is different for everyone, and it's not abnormal for it to last well over a year. Bloody Queen Victoria was in mourning for the rest of her life. I'm _fine_. I'm looking for a _job_. So stop worrying so much and drop it," he cut in, suspecting everything he had just said would be treated more as an uninteresting side comment and less like the honest to God plea it was for her to leave him be.

"But that's just it, John. You're_ not_ okay, and it's like you don't even realize how far away from 'okay' you are. It's just – you don't know how scared I get sometimes. I just _know_ that one day I'm going to call and you –"

Her words tripped over one another in her rush to get them out, but she hesitated then. They both knew what she was on about. Even if both never spoke it aloud. Even if she hadn't alluded to it since he lost his job (not on purpose as she had accused him. The practice found out he was _that_ John Watson and wasn't keen to keep a madman's 'accomplise' around the patients. He couldn't be pissed to try to find another one as long as he still had money to pay the rent).

"I'm afraid you won't answer," she plucked up, words tapering off with all the quiet aplomb of a man about to be hanged. Sod his bloody sister.

He didn't acknowledge her fear, taking a small moment for himself to relish the prophetic irony of his silence, perhaps unfairly so. Still, despite his penchant for twisting theses conversations with his own morbid sense of cynical symbolism, he really had no answer to give her, and even if he did, part of him felt like he wouldn't. Pointless. Pointless and redundant. Most everything was these days. And these round-about rows with his sister were just so –

_Boring. _

John winced. Every now and then, words and phrases and bloody answers to questions he'd barely begun to ask himself would just pop into his head, all said in _his_ voice. There was nothing for it. He'd tried to make it stop. The words still came. So he accepted it, and thanked his ghosts, before shoving them firmly to the depths of his mind yet again.

Harry sighed, and it sounded sad. Disappointed in him sad. Like he was being deliberately obtuse (he was) or like a mother would sigh at a naughty child. It grated.

"_John . . ._"

"Harry, I'm fine." He repeated the statement, voice softer, eyebrows scrunching against her tone, yet remaining resolute. He never liked that tone. It reminded him too much of childhood.

"Stop lying, John. If not to me, then at least stop lying to yourself."

_I stopped lying to myself a long time ago, Harry. You, on the other hand..._

"Hmm," he made the noise in the spirit of tepid disagreement and wished for the conversation to be over.

The sound of his sister's sigh stretched across the line, and the silence that followed was probably more uncomfortable for her than it was for him. She was the one to break it.

"I'll drop it for now. But – no, okay, I'll drop it. It's – It's fine. All fine. I just worry about you sometimes, and I know I've been out of touch for a few weeks, well, I was just worried, and I was probably just a bit – ah, rough about it. I just want you to be better," said Harry.

"I _want_ to be better, Harry. But these things take time. I'm not great, but I'm better than I was almost a year ago. Don't worry so much. It just takes time. A few more months and I'll be better than I am now. Gainfully employed even," promised John, the lie falling from his lips like cake crumbs and just as uncomfortable to lay in.

It was for her own good. It made her feel better. He didn't want to hear it – the reasons varied. There was nothing wrong with keeping his sister away from this though. If nothing else he owed her that. She was the only one besides Mrs. Hudson that even bothered with him anymore on anything that resembled a consistent basis.

Harry laughed, then teased, "You can't fool a Watson, Watson. You're enjoying the extended holiday. Slug."

John indulged her with a chuckle. He ignored the sharp twist in his chest.

"You still going to your appointments?" asked Harry, hitching the intonation of her question in a way that made John wonder if she'd stubbed her toe or something but kept talking through it.

"Sure. Got to get out of the flat sometimes," said John in easy agreement.

"How did it go this week?"

John grimaced and lifted himself from the floor where he had been sitting and contemplating the brand new bullet hole in the wall during most of the conversation. Thank God Mrs. Hudson was out for the weekend. He shook his bad leg, trying to regain the feeling from where it had gone numb.

"Prescribed me another pill," he murmured, giving his leg one final shake before testing his weight. As expected, a little stiff from being in one position too long, but it didn't seize up on him and cause him to fall. It was an improvement over yesterday then.

"Not again. What did the bloody twit give you this time?"

"Xanax," said John. He pushed the bathroom door open.

"Xanax? What – . . . anxiety?"

"Something like that."

"... not panic attacks?"

John smirked at his reflection in the medicine cabinet. "Could be."

"Oh, Christ, it is then."

"Only minor," he conceded (lied), opening the cabinet. He didn't really have panic attacks, nor did he have anxiety that went above the norm. He just liked the pills and had a script happy therapist. But what his sister didn't know... "It's a recent addition to the cast of ailments I've been collecting."

He frowned, noticing for the first time the band-aid stuck to the back of the cabinet door. He hadn't put it there. It was discolored, like it had been there for ages. Funny. He'd never really noticed. Wonder who – John stopped the inner inquiry in its tracks. He didn't need to know.

"I'm not surprised. With your PTSD and – well, you know, all that's happened over the past year, that sort of stuff can pop up. Just don't drink on those pills, okay? It'll make you sick." warned Harry.

John snorted, his eyes roving over different sized pill bottles on the first and middle shelves, distracted, mind not entirely on the conversation, and therefore, not on his answer. "I'm sure you'd know."

Silence. Awkward, stretching like a line of chewed gum, silence.

_Jesus _now he'd gone and hurt her feelings. He rubbed his face with one hand, the other holding the phone away from his mouth, groaning as soft as he could while still managing a satisfyingly aggravated wail, if only for the base sort of pleasure found in the act. He brought the phone back to his ear.

"..._Harry_, I'm sorry, you know I didn't - "

"Yeah, yeah, you great tosser. I know you didn't. It's fine, really. I don't care. It's not like I haven't been on the receiving end of your snark before. Just watch out with all those pills, okay? How many does she have you -"

"This is just the fourth one," interrupted John, relieved to have scraped by with that one, yet understanding enough of his sister to know that she was upset. It wasn't in his nature to be so caustic to Harry, and even if it wasn't wholly appreciated, she was simply trying to help. It was merely good form to not throw her past mistakes in her face when she riled him up, even absentmindedly, and that was something he needed to remind himself. Before he answered the phone.

"Fourth? Damn, John. You never used to be on anything."

"Yeah, well, things change, don't they?" he said, tone a little harsh. She ignored it.

"Fuck all if that isn't the truth. One's a sleeping pill, right?"

He looked at the neat row of unopened and identical pill bottles on the very top shelf and felt the slight pinch of anger drain upon the sight. There were six of them altogether.

"Riight," he drawled.

"So you're still having trouble sleeping then. You've been on them for months now. Of all the pills you could nix out of your daily regiment -"

"Bit hard to sleep without them," he grumbled, considering the top shelf of the medicine cabinet like Mrs. Hudson might one of her gossip rags, eyes fervent. Really, it would be harder to sleep if they weren't there. He wasn't lying.

"And you need them _every_ night?" Harry prodded, skeptical.

"Yeah," said John. A simple acknowledgment – not what she would be fishing for. He heard her pause, and figured she would say something other than what she initially wanted.

"Just be careful with them, okay?"

He shut the medicine cabinet, once again eye to eye with himself. Careful. She wanted him to be careful. He didn't look too careful right now – not with the way his mouth was set. He looked angry, even if he wasn't. And he looked . . . haggard. The bruises under his eyes reminded him of when he was a resident - went 57 hours without sleep once, and he sort of looked like this at the end of it. Hair unkempt, along with his dress – frumpy, too big, wrinkled. He'd lost a stone or more. This was not the face of a careful man.

"John?"

His eyes narrowed themselves at his reflection.

"You know, Harry, there's a reason no one ever addresses me as 'Mr.' Watson. I'm pretty sure I've got this handled."

He flicked the light switch off to the bathroom and turned back to the living room.

"Whatever, you cheeky prat. Just keep in touch with me, okay? I hate always being the one to call and never being the one called."

"Funny, I could say the opposite."

"Oh, I've noticed. Hard not too," she laughed.

"Hm." His attention was diverted – eyes lingering, considering, on the new bullet hole in the wall – the only one he'd ever put in poor Mrs. Hudson's nouveau-Gothic wallpaper himself. His attention drifted with alarming frequency these days. Sometimes he'd notice, sometimes not.

Another sigh, this one loud and jarring in a way that made him blink. She did that a lot over the phone.

"I can tell I'm not going to get anywhere else with you. I'll let you off here. Just promise me you'll at least eat dinner tonight. A healthy one. Nothing too greasy or artery clogging."

"I promise you I'll eat dinner tonight," John parroted back. His eyes darted to the Browning on the table by their own accord.

_Definitely wouldn't clog any arteries. Not sure how healthy it would be._

His black humor provided the mental image, and he couldn't help but chuckle.

"Somehow I don't believe you," commented Harry before she wheedled the usual assurances out of him and left him to his peace.

Well. He wasn't going to be doing anything tonight. Not after that phone call. Great timing, his sister.

Since there was nothing for it, John settled himself onto the couch, easily locating the remote between the arm and a cushion. His plan was to spend the rest of the evening flipping through crap telly before succumbing to the narcotic nods that would surely reappear upon his inactivity. Not how he originally thought the night would go, but if Harry was sober again...

When he remembered that Mrs. Hudson wasn't due for another weekend away anytime soon, he let his head fall back hard against the sofa, a great big _whoosh_ of disappointment and frustration fluttering past his lips. It never was the right sodding time. He picked it up and dropped his head back down again for good measure.

He wasn't entirely sure of the name of the movie he found after a good ten minutes of mindless channel surfing, but against the odds (because, odds were, everything on the telly was crap), it managed to intrigue him.

It was about a dying man, and because this man knew for certain that his time was short, he spent the rest of the remaining months of his life crossing out bullet points on a list of things he'd always wanted to do before he died, which he had composed upon learning of his impending death. It was an American movie – the actors were familiar, and all in all it kept John interested, right up until the man's death.

"A _list_," John murmured.

He settled himself back into the couch from where he'd been crouched on the edge, his attention dissipating with the credits, and his mind a contemplative whirl.

Silly idea had merit.

His eyes drifted back to the gun on the side table, out for anyone to see. Of course, only Mrs. Hudson would set foot in the flat these days, and even that was infrequent. People mostly let him keep to himself, and barring that one visit from Mycroft (He came for tea and offered him a job as a physician on his staff about six or seven weeks ago. He'd declined), he hadn't seen anyone he really knew besides Harry in months. Nevertheless, John would rather be by himself and felt he had enough meddlers in his life without inviting any more.

Despite himself, John found a notebook easily enough in the bookcase. He ignored any writings (this wasn't his notebook) and flipped to the very back, tearing out a fresh page, and then putting the notebook back where he found it, wedged between a hefty book and what looked like a jar of dried mill worms that had been on the bookcase as long as John had been there.

He sat at the kitchen table, part of him regarding the acid mark etched into the wood with a pang of bittersweet nostalgia (he could recall with burning clarity the morning it happened), and picked up a pen (they were always where he left them now).

1.

He stared at the number he had written – blank.

"This'll be an easy one to finish," he said aloud to himself, letting the words echo in the flat. No one commented. Not even in his head.

Crushing. John felt the silence as he would a physical thing, and it was crushing him as if Sisyphus had dropped his boulder from the heavens right onto John's head. He couldn't breath, and he hated himself. He hated himself for almost expecting someone to say something back.

John set the pen and paper aside, leaving it and the scarred table. Maybe if he slept on it, he could think of something, but right now he felt too wrung out to do much more than fall into his bed and pray he didn't dream.

He climbed the stairs (he hadn't expected to tonight), heart roiling as if it itself was full of acid, burning patterns and leaving scars on his insides that no one could see, but he could feel.


	2. Chapter 2

**a/n: **Don't looked so surprised. I have a few written up. Thanks for the reviews. Keep talking, kids.

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"_When someone you love dies, and you're not expecting it, you don't lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over a long time - the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone. Just when the day comes - when there's a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she's gone, forever - there comes another day, and another specifically missing part."  
― John Irving, A Prayer For Meany Owen _

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_**Of Islands and Men**  
_

Chapter Two

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Gillian was his new therapist.

He'd been with her for six months, and she was the sort of therapist that didn't really care to dig to the marrow of an issue. She'd rather have you talk yourself out of an hour and seventy pounds and into a bad Xanax habit. She was young, mostly inexperienced in the field, and more than likely had a bad Xanax problem herself. Whether she did or not, she was still the most absent-minded person he had ever met, and her memory did anything but serve her well, although it had helped him out a fair few times.

"And you're not having any trouble with the higher dosage, are you, John?" asked Gillian, scratching something out on her yellow legal pad.

"Mm, no, not at all. Seems to be doing just fine."

"Good, that's what I like to hear," she said to her pad. She lifted her eyes, pushing smart black frames up her nose. She did it on purpose - wearing them low on the bridge of her nose, peering over their rims with all the presumptuousness of a librarian, then pushing them up with an air of intellectual austerity. It was all very cliché, but that was the sort of person Gillian was. That's how all of the people he met these days were. He lived in a dull, gray city of cliches.

His therapist uncrossed and then crossed her legs, balancing the legal pad on her knee, doodling for all John could tell. He tried to make out what she was writing, but her script was too curvy and small. That was annoying. Ella's had been blocky and large.

His eyes flicked to Gillian's pants leg, noting the cat hair and catching himself contemplating the likelihood of his therapist being single before he realized what he was doing. Not that he'd be interested. God no. He pinched himself hard when Gillian wasn't looking, and then forced himself to concentrate on her and not what he could infer about her relationship status based on the cat hair covering her pants leg. That was something _he_ would do.

"How are you sleeping at night?" she asked, looking back down to her pad.

"Just fine. I don't need the pills every night, but it's a comfort to know that they're there if I need them," he said, mind flashing to his medicine cabinet, to all the unopened and opened bottles. He had so many now. Almost a year's worth.

"Good. I'm glad they're working out for you. Oh, and I almost forgot to ask, have you made any headway on finding the new job?"

John caught the grimace before it could form. Everyone nagged him about his lack of job. "No, not quite. I've been keeping an eye on the papers, but nothing's come up yet."

She nodded. "It's important for you to establish a new routine, John. Give it a thought, okay?"

"Sure," he acquiesced.

"And give me another second to write up this month's prescription before I let you go. You need one for your Xanax this month too, don't you? Sure I haven't already written it up, and you're just not telling me?" she smiled. She'd done that with another patient not too long ago.

He laughed, but only because it was expected. It was like dipping himself in slime.

It felt foreign, and the sound stuck to him – made him feel a bit uncomfortable. He hated having to fake it.

Gillian's absentmindedness was the fodder of the sort of self-gratifying jokes told by those who make light of their own shortcomings in a way that reassures them that no one present is judging them near as harshly as they are themselves. So he laughs, and his therapist feels better.

His lips thin at the thought, but only after Gillian's attention is diverted once again to her pad. It should be the other way around, really, for what he was shelling out for these sessions. Couldn't see her laughing at any of his jokes though. For one thing, he never felt like making jokes in therapy. God only knew what the therapist would read from it. He doubted Gillian would appreciate his humor anyway.

His face lifted with hers – his expression smooth once again, and she doesn't notice. She never does.

"Well then, I guess I'll see you next week. You've got all your prescriptions? I gave you the one for your Zoloft, right?" Gillian asked, standing up, looking around her like she might have written it and _not_ handed it to him ten minutes ago.

He stood up as well, holding up the papers in his hand for emphasis. "Yeah, I've got them all."

The confused look was replaced with another smile. "Fantastic. Alright then, you keep in mind what we talked about this week. About a holiday. You need to take some time away from London for a week or two. Don't just blow my advice off, John. I know I get a bit of lip service out of you, but I think a holiday would really do you some good. If only you'd listen to me," she admonished, patting his arm. He resisted the initial impulse to flinch, and luckily her hand was gone before it evolved into much of a problem.

"Don't worry, Gillian. I won't blow it off," promised John with a smile of his own – pretense, of course. He hadn't smiled an honest smile in months.

He didn't know how many times he'd assured his therapist of something with every intention of forgetting whatever she had just prattled on to him as soon as he was out of her office. But this suggestion was digestible instead of outright inedible, and he let his mind mull over the idea in the cab back to the flat, thinking that perhaps his therapist had actually earned her paycheck for once.

When the cab pulled up to the curb in front of 221B, he threw a bill at the driver ("Thanks, mate. Mind the rain. It's wet out there.") and shuffled through the pouring rain. Once he'd slammed the door to the flat proper, he climbed the stairs, opened his door with fumbling keys, slammed the door without bothering to re-lock it, and threw himself down onto the sofa in a way that made him wince, but he thought he got the point across to himself well enough. He wasn't going to use the cane. He just wasn't. So he and his sodding leg would have to deal.

He almost fell asleep, but roused himself before he could, making a cup of tea to help him along. Walking back out into the common area, the bullet ridden wall caught his eye, most specifically the new addition to the old, smiling wounds in the wall. His addition. A note, of sort, if he would.

_His note..._

He pulled out a crumpled and well worn folded piece of paper from his back pocket, smoothing out the wrinkles on his knee after flopping down onto his chair (he would never sit in the other one – not his). It'd been in his pocket for nearly a month now, and still it stayed the same.

1.

One. Blank.

Nothing. Just a number and then nothing. His life was blank and white and crumpled and full of nothing but unwritten promises and bullet holes.

It mocked him.

The weeks had bled into one another. It felt like he was hurtling through the days, aimless and uncaring of what he smashed into, but pulled with such force to the inevitable future, like one magnet to another, that he'd go to blink his eyes on Monday and they'd flip back open on Thursday. And all the while he'd stare at the paper, the number, the great blank space, and the new bullet hole in the wall. His life had come to that.

John crumpled the paper into a ball and threw it at the telly.

It was less than a minute later before he was smoothing out the wrinkles on his knee again, this time sitting on the couch. His eyes zeroed in on the number and refused to budge.

His thoughts were spiced with bitterness and grief, frustration and – he couldn't fucking deal with it anymore. The emptiness – he just couldn't. He only knew of one sure-fire way to fill the gaping maw, but before he committed to anything rash, he yearned to find closure with himself and the world before he sought it in the next. He couldn't leave it like this. There hadto be something to fill the blank.

He reached blindly for the pen on the coffee table, finding it without much trouble, fingers clutching the plastic hard with firm resolve.

Action calmed him. Action claimed him. It always had. He was not a man to sit and be idle, and indecision did not normally keep him company through his days. He would make this last _last_ decision right this moment and be done with it.

John held the tip of the pen to the paper longer than he should have, searching for the right words, maybe something poetic, but nothing too wordy or overt. In the end, the swelling ink blot and the cold rain beating on his roof spurred him to simply get it out.

1._ Go on holiday. Preferably somewhere warm_**.**

He nodded to himself. There. Gillian wasn't a complete waste of money after all. He'd finally found something he could accomplish. He had a goal, a destination, something more than what he had moments ago. He played with the idea of writing down another, but he refrained. Finding even one reason to live was hard enough.

But as he stared at the words that had finally found form on the worn out paper, he couldn't help but think that that was all he had ever wanted. For longer than he was comfortable admitting. Although, he'd been looking at it in the wrong way.

Now that he finally had the order down (closure here, there later), his decision – God how he'd agonized over it, losing sleep, the guilt – now his decision was so much easier to come to terms with. He couldn't just expect closure after everything was said and done without finding it in this life first. And he was satisfied with his decision. He finally felt like he could break himself away from the humdrum of his sad existence and _do_ something without shuffling around a lion's share of guilt for dropping the proverbial curtains so soon. A holiday would be just what he needed to say a proper goodbye.

With that thought in mind and a half smile on his lips, John fished he laptop out from under the coffee table, and booted it up. He Googled the best tropical vacation spots, picked the one he liked best, browsed through a website on visas (he could pay for one upon entering the country), debated with himself, and then decided on three additional destinations. He was going to be on that side of the world anyway.

John tried to remember what travel websites there were that allowed you to book a plane. He could only remember the one with the gnome, but he supposed they were probably all the same anyway. As it went, he found the one promoted by Captain Kirk and ended up going with that one.

John thought himself unnecessarily frivolous with each first class booking, excepting the one plane that didn't offer it, and the trip would last near a month if he kept deciding to island hop, but it wasn't like he'd need the money for much else. Besides, he had the time.

No, it wasn't as hard to book so many planes as he thought it might be. Nor was it very difficult to arrange for the hotels. He had all the arrangements done by dinner time, paid in full with his card. He checked his bank account after, and while it had made a significant dent in his funds, he still had enough in there to pay his rent and bills for well over another year. So if he had a change of heart...

He snorted to himself, shutting his laptop and shoving it under the couch so he wouldn't step on it by accident.

As it were, it was approaching dinner time, and John thought he'd treat himself to an old favorite for his last night in the flat.

It was the first time he had Chinese in months and months and – no, he didn't cry. He hadn't cried in a long time, but the Chinese felt like lead falling down his throat with all the casualty of a hot iron. The flat was silent. No one asked where the duck sauce was.

He threw most of it into the waste bin that didn't smell like embalming fluid once the lid was popped, and what little he had eaten sat heavy in his stomach. He stepped out of the kitchen, breathing from his belly, and considered the locked door he suddenly found himself in front of.

It was as close to self-flagellation as he'd ever gotten, but in for a penny...

The skull on the mantle stared at him as he approached, but it was the ashtray from the palace that was his target. That's where he kept the key to the downstairs bedroom.

John considered the key and whether the emotional backlash was worth it. He needed to get a decent night's sleep if he was going to be any good for traveling tomorrow. Or, he amended himself, he could always sleep on the plane if he had to.

As convenient of a compromise as that might have been, and as much as John wanted to open the door and take a look through the boxes just once before he left, he didn't think he could bring himself to do it.

Then he remembered he'd have to open the door and go in there anyway. That's where the duffels were, in the closet. He groaned and plucked the key from the absconded ashtray.

The click of the lock was more ominous than John was willing to admit. Nevertheless, he pushed the door open. Enough moonlight was streaming through the window that he didn't need to turn on the light. He easily navigated the stacked boxes and pulled open the closet.

The first thing he saw was suits. Lots of well tailored suits. All colored dark by the moonlight. His heart squeezed, but he ignored it and pulled down a decent sized grey duffel from the top of the closet. He shut the door without another thought to all the suits and side stepped his way across the maze of boxes.

Temptation made him peak into a box by the door. His breath caught when he spied the familiar blue silk robe stuffed around a Bunsen burner, a few mismatched pillow cases and the odd book. He let the cardboard flap fall close, and shut the door. He felt his back rest against the door on its own accord, and he let his head fall back. He closed his eyes and gave the ache of nostalgia a moment to pass.

John sighed after a long moment, turned and locked the door. He dropped the key back in the ashtray and avoided the skull's gaze with ease of long practice. Instead, his found himself assessing the new bullet hole in the wall once more, and it helped to calm his ragged emotions.

He fell boneless into his chair.

John doubted anyone would ever know it was his – that particular bullet hole. It was the only wall that had ever been shot in the flat, and besides the smiley face, there were plenty of odd bullet holes scattered about that any extra would blend in. He'd bet money he was the only one who kept count.

And even if someone did pay that much attention (Mycroft), they'd never figure out what it meant. John barely grasped it himself. It was a little obtuse, initially an accident, and maybe more of a promise than a confession. It was his own version of a note, so to speak, only discernible by ghosts and himself, and that was the way he liked it.

It was hard living in 221B, but John refused to live anywhere else. For the first few days after the incident, he couldn't physically make himself set foot into the flat. But then Mycroft had sent some people to pack up the downstairs bedroom and all the nasty experiments that had been left to rot. He went in after that and never left.

Still, some things were forgotten in the cleanup, and he'd feel little spikes of pain through his heart when he'd stumble over one. Like the box of nicotine patches he'd found deep within the recesses of the couch or when he'd pulled out a favored mug from the pantry that he'd traditionally never liked in the past but used anyway just for the sodding sentimentality of it.

The only thing he'd replaced in the living room that had been boxed was the skull. He'd rescued it from too much bubble wrap and replaced it on the mantle. Still, it may start out as innocuously as him looking under the kitchen sink for a scrub brush only to pull out a box of whole human fingernails, and he'd just snap.

It hadn't been the fingernails this time though. Tonight it'd been the take-out.

He tried crap telly for an hour or so, just to get his mind off things, and half way through a Doctor Who episode, he decided that his stiff muscles had eased enough that he could finally declare himself relaxed.

John called his sister around ten when he was feeling better and up to dealing with her. He knew she'd still be up. It wasn't all that difficult to tell her about his abrupt, but thoroughly approved of, tropical holiday. In fact, he was delighted to detect a hint of jealousy in his sister's voice - there was nothing he had or did that people coveted about him anymore. But that was only a small part of him, and an even smaller part of her. Mostly, she alternated between sounding surprised and happily optimistic.

The guilt came up suddenly, like vomit, and he spluttered.

"Hey now, I know you're off to the other side of the world, but don't choke on air and die before you can even get on the plane," teased Harry. She sounded buzzed, but not drunk. Not yet. Seemed as if she had stumbled on one of those twelve steps since the last time they'd spoken though.

His answering chuckle was weak. "I'll try not to."

"I'm sure you'll love it, John. This is such a good idea. And here I thought your new therapist was an idiot. Maybe she knows something after all if she's talked you into a holiday," said Harry. There was a steady droll of voices in the background. Crowded, but not rowdy. Lolling jazz music in the distance. She was probably at a pub. Maybe the new gay pub she told him about a few months back. He knew she was looking for someone. John sincerely hoped Harry found her.

He swallowed, his throat like sand paper, but the guilty feelings assuaged with the thought of his sister finding someone good for her. He'd feel ill to his stomach every now and again, sometimes when he was talking to Mrs. Hudson, but mostly when he talked to his sister.

They'd both be fine though. And he didn't think that just to make himself feel better. He honestly believed it. They might even be better off, in the long run. He made himself leave those thoughts behind and focused back on the conversation, giving in to the split second of panic caused by not remembering what they had been discussing before it came back to him in a flash.

"Yeah, well, she's much better than Ella at any rate."

"Seems like it," agreed Harry, and she gave no indication that she noticed his pause. "Except I think she gives you way too many pills," said Harry, her voice lowering in pitch – disapproval.

"Hmm." It was all he'd ever say on that particular subject. Now that she sounded as if she was about to disparage him about his medical habits again, he was less enthused about talking to his sister. He glanced at time on his lap top. She'd kept him on the phone for over twenty minutes now. Longer than what they usually talked.

"You could at least act a little more enthusiastic about it."

John stifled a sigh. "Of course I'm ecstatic my psychiatrist hands out prescriptions like lollies."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," she admonished, laughing. John felt his shoulder ease in response. No lecture, then. Well, she _was_ at a pub. She'd be more inclined to keep it light, if only not to ruin her own good mood. He couldn't always tell with his sister, though. She had a history of getting upset about small things. Most of the time without him realizing it right off.

"I'm excited. Seriously excited. I'm just tired right now. It's been a long day," explained John. He wasn't feeling so much excited as ... settled. He felt settled and sorted out now that he had a plan. It might have just been the hour, the bedroom, or all the sodding crap telly, but he suspected the weight of having finally taken action had tired him out too. Funny. He'd have thought it would have energized him after so many months of dull inertia.

"Nah, you're not that excited. I can tell. But you will be once you're on the plane. Really, I'm proud of you for doing something so proactive. Just wait. The excitement will catch like wildfire once you're on the move."

"Probably so," he agreed. "But I've got to get off here. I need to go to the store and pick up a few sundry things before I turn in. Flight's tomorrow."

"What? So soon?" asked Harry, surprised. It was soon, but now that he had a plan, John didn't want to wait. "I thought you'd at least give me a chance to run by your flat and drop off my old suitcase for you. You remember it? The really big blue one? I didn't think you had any of your own."

"Oh, no, I'm fine Harry. Thanks, but I've got some luggage at the flat I can use. I'm not planning on taking much. You know how I travel."

"That's what the military does for you. Me? I try and take my whole flat, practically."

John chuckled. "I remember your dorm room at Uni. Looked just like your room at home."

"That's because it was my room at home," she countered, giggling. His sister rarely giggled. Definitely buzzed.

John wrapped up the conversation, begging off the big blue suitcase ("No, you don't need to bring it over. I don't need it. Really. You shouldn't even be driving right now anyway. Wait, don't – oh, you're laughing. Right, no car. I knew that.") and promising to call before he got on the plane. When he'd finally pried himself off the phone, he shuffled his shoes on, grabbed his keys, and set off for the store.

He really did need a new toothbrush. It wasn't just an excuse to get off the phone with his sister.

* * *

"_Do you leave you your windows down when you go on holiday?"_

He woke up with the question ringing in his ears, sometime around four in the morning, and even if he felt like ripping his pillow and throwing his lamp, he did neither, only stared at his bedroom window, accusing. Indignant. Letting the memories play out. It must have been the fucking Chinese food.

In the morning, after his tea, after picking through the pills he wanted to take and those he didn't, after finding the duffel bag that wasn't his tossed behind his chair and packing only enough and just what was needed from the medicine cabinet, he opened the window in his bedroom with a decisive snap.

And left it open.

* * *

Heathrow was crowded. Well, it was always crowded, but John suspected that Friday afternoons were the worst of times for him to book a plane. He should have known better, but he had a habit of letting the days slip by him without any note. He hadn't been wholly aware that yesterday was Thursday.

Security wasn't a problem. It just took awhile to get through. He hadn't bothered packing anything he shouldn't have. His gun was at home, even if his fingers had twitched in its direction before leaving the flat. He didn't need it. He couldn't even bring it if he wanted. He'd shoved it under the cushion of the couch, as he couldn't be bothered to make the trip upstairs to his bedroom in his haste to meet the cab that was waiting for him.

John packed light. It was a habit formed from long years in the service. Beyond that, he didn't need much anyway. He had his borrowed duffel bag (It was his now. John had been left _everything, _but he didn't like to think about it), and it was just within the parameters of qualifying as a carry on, so he opted to keep it with him and save himself the trouble of picking his way through a crowd and waiting by the conveyor belt later.

It was only a twenty minute wait before he was boarding. He double checked his ticket. First class would be an experience. John hoped the food was good, and he wouldn't say no to a stiff drink or two later on into the flight.

He squeezed his way past a nervous looking woman on the way to his seat. The aisles were bigger in first class, but still small enough to make it cumbersome for more than one person to move in the same space. Once he'd got himself settled, he stretched the leg that bothered him.

When the plane finally lifted itself off of English soil, he lifted the shade on his window. He saw the maze of buildings in the gray, dull light of an overcast London, picked out the familiar landmarks, took in every nuance of his home, basked in the memories of better times and happier days, and then bid it all farewell.

John slid the window cover down, leaned his chair back, and closed his eyes. He couldn't wait for the stewardess to make her rounds. If there was ever a time for a strong scotch...

He frowned to himself. That reminded him he'd forgotten to call his sister before he boarded. No use for it now.


	3. Chapter 3

**a/n: **Well. Lord knows I didn't mean to take a month. Sorry. Anyway, I debated about what I'm about to say, for a while, and I finally figured it might be worth mentioning. Just to give fair warning *sporadic updates.

About three weeks ago now, I was raped.

Aaaaaand yes, it **sucks**. Very very very much so. On one hand, I'm surprised at how well I've taken it. Honestly, it must have been all the post-rape stories on here that's got me so on edge (Hell, I've even written -abandoned - a post-rape story myself!). Now that I'm on the other side of THAT story, I mean, fuck. I definitely get it NOW. But anyway.

No means no, kids. And be very careful about who you hang out alone with. If someone gives you even the littlest bit of the creeps, I'd steer clear of them. Least ways don't ever be alone or accept any drinks you haven't made yourself from them. You might find yourself on the back patio with someone 30 years older (a 'friend' of the family) banging away at you. Dear sweet Jesus that was fucking not a good experience. And yeah, it gets said so much it's annoyingly redundant and sort of lost it's oomph, but yeah, I never thought it'd happen to me.

* * *

_"Relationships take up energy; letting go of them, psychiatrists theorize, entails mental work. When you lose someone you were close to, you have to reassess your picture of the world and your place in it. The more your identity was wrapped up with the deceased, the more difficult the loss." _  
_ ― Meghan O'Rourke_

* * *

_**Of Islands and Men**_

Chapter Three

* * *

John stood on the other side of the world.

The other side of the world was hot and humid, of a nature that John was unaccustomed. This was a big, hulking, sweating beast to tangle with – not dry or familiar to Afghanistan in any respect other than _hot_. Humidity. It was the Devil's own. If John was uncertain before, he was very certain now. Hell would be humid.

His face twisted at the thought.

"Senor!"

...And everyone would probably speak Spanish.

"No Espanol!" he yelled, jerking away from an unwashed looking fellow who had reached out to grab his shoulder. The man stumbled in the sand, but was quick to right himself. John regretted not sticking to the private beach of the resort.

John was polite when he told the man to leave him alone (in both languages) before he gave up and turned away, splashing water high on his rolled pants leg after he'd walked farther into the tide than he'd meant to. Good way to spend his holiday, this – dodging a guy selling either knock off wrist watches or a pack of questionable cigarettes – he couldn't be certain since his Spanish sucked and the man had both.

He cursed the man and his wet pants.

John dug his feet in the sand, pushing himself out of the water. His felt the loss of the gentle push and pull of the tide and for some inexplicable reason, it saddened him. The compacted sand gave way to his weight once he'd left the reach of the waves, and he regarded his feet.

They were covered in a fine sheen of sand so white it almost looked as though he was wearing socks. It made his lips quirk at the corners briefly, for some inexplicable reason.

The travel sites had pitched it differently, of course. Some things they got spot on – long stretches of blinding white sand and crystal blue waters, yes, bikini bodies and shady palm trees, sure. Solitary walks along the beach, check. Fun and fulfillment, check, check. Smelly men haranguing you to buy cheap shit? Well, there's always a drawback to paradise, right? If only he could have the beach without the tourists or bums. Barbados would be quieter, he assured himself, and less crowded. It was a much smaller than this city.

"Oi! Watch it," called John, a sudden impact on his good shoulder making him stumble. It had been an older boy who had bumped into him. He chased a smaller girl in a pink bathing suit, waving a shoe and laughing, sand flying with every step, yelling at each other in rapid Spanish that left John dizzy.

He shook his head.

Kids. He'd never _disliked_ them. He saw plenty of them while he was at the clinic, but hadn't ever given them much thought beyond 'tell me where it hurts.' He'd never imagined he'd have his own one day. Maybe years ago, but not now.

John eyed the water, and there they were. Kids. Lots and lots of kids. Skinny kids, brown kids, fat kids, tall kids – they all converged in the water as one teeming mess of noise and color. No, if anything, the idea of fatherhood was something he would not mourn, and he was okay with that.

The different colored beach towels and lounge chairs created a pretty mosaic against a gorgeous tropical back drop. Lots of very unhealthily tan half naked bodies made up the picture too. Some pleasing, others less so. And some topless.

These, he caught himself looking twice at as he picked his way through loungers and sand castles.

Deciding to walk a little further down the beach (it had nothing to do with the topless college students), he let his toes skim the water, the waves washing over his feet every few seconds. He watched the ground for interesting shells or things people had left behind, and then looked up every so often, keeping an eye out for rogue fake Rolex salesmen.

He blushed when one of the topless college students smiled at him as he walked by their area. He averted his eyes, and made some half aborted attempt at a quick wave, which ended up looking like he was practicing to be a short windmill.

The girl giggled and waved back.

John (well, he wasn't dead yet, so sue him) couldn't help but give himself the proverbial punch on the shoulder. He must not look as ugly as he feels, if pretty college girls still give him the eye. And then he chuckles to himself at his self degrading thoughts.

He noticed, after he had traveled a little ways down the stretch of the beach, that he was walking father and farther into the water without even realizing it. The waves had a way of guiding his feet, demanding they accompany them as they draw away from the shore. He would be shin deep before he ever realized he had stopped walking in a straight line, then steer his unwilling feet back to the shoreline.

A dirty man with clothes that had probably seen other owners and definitely better days was giving him a considering look. John didn't glare, like he wanted to. He didn't want to invite the man's attention at all. Instead, he started walking for the board walk, finally giving up the beach as bust and acting as if the man didn't exist at all. Of course, John kept his attention on him (just in case), but not in any way that invited attention.

These were the real beach bums, who didn't have straw hats or sleep in hammocks or drink out of coconuts like was advertised. They stunk. From what he could gather, most lived in back alleys somewhere within the city. The beach was their day job. They'd hussle the tourists for money, eat just enough, find their vices (many reeked of alcohol, some were obviously tweaked), and wile away the evening hours at the bus stop down from the beach until the police came and scattered them to wherever hole was available to sleep until the next day. He'd seen as much over the past week.

John heard a rush of angry Spanish behind him as he stumbled over someone's beach towel and splashed sand onto their legs, but he kept going after a breathy apology thrown out to the topless woman, who probably didn't understand him anyway, intent on keeping his blush subdued and trudging the rest of the way through sand and sweaty humanity.

Sand was hard to walk through and it was hell on his calves. He knew this, remembered the familiar burn of muscle overworking as a soldier in the desert until it solidified into muscle, but had forgotten how tiring it was. He had gotten used to it in Afghanistan, but walking through the sand on this part of the world? Not fun during midday. This sun felt foreign – hotter, more vicious. The sun and the people were just too much stimulation for a man who had, for the most part, shut himself up in his flat for a year with nothing but pills, a gun, and a ghost.

He finally made it off the beach and through the boardwalk. He had no trouble hailing a cab (they were eager and he was a foreigner) and directed the driver back to the resort. San Juan was nice enough. The architecture was lovely and the food was good, but it was too big, and there were too many people. It reminded him of London in this respect. John was glad that he was leaving tomorrow.

Once the sun had set (he was on the beach for this – the resort beach, not the public one. It had less people and more palm trees), he ventured out of his hotel and into the city. He had been in Puerto Rico long enough that he knew where to find a slew of restaurants within walking distance to the hotel. It crossed his mind that it might be dangerous to walk around the city at night, with him being an obvious foreigner, but instead of deterring him, it encouraged him, as danger was wont to do.

Of course, he had no trouble along the way. He never much did anymore, even if he half expected to.

John enjoyed his last meal in San Juan, savoring each forkful, spices dancing on his tongue and the chile pepper making him take small sips of his water in-between bites. He closed his eyes at one point and let the music from the bar area wash over him.

It was upbeat. People were dancing. Salsa, probably. The food was good. The atmosphere wasn't too intruding. He sat at the table alone and just let himself _be _in this restaurant where no one knew him. This is what he needed. This is what he wanted. He was completely and totally removed from life in England.

There was _no one_ here who knew him. No Harry to nag and worry him. No hovering Mrs. Hudson. No quiet as a mouse Mycroft, who handled the will, gave him his money, tipped a figurative hat his way and walked out of his life with a twirl of an umbrella only to appear for tea months later and then disappear just as suddenly. No Gillian either – what would she say if he mentioned he missed something as insane as being kidnapped from time to time? He wouldn't know. He'd never told her, and she was a world away. All of them would forever remain a world away.

But most importantly, there was no grinning skull on the mantle who would regard him with silent judgement, as John sat in his chair, teacup in hand, losing the staring war he'd wage almost nightly with the cursed thing. Its empty black eye sockets would accuse John of something that had been another man's choice, reminding him, taunting him with 'what-ifs' and 'what I wished I had said's and 'what I should have done's' until John would blink, and the skull would win. It always won.

There was no skull here. It sat, unmoved for months, left on the mantle, hiding a pack of unopened cigarettes. All of his ghosts were left in the gray city. In the dull, lifeless, _silent_ flat.

All except one, but he ignored himself, like he did all his ghosts. If there was one, disappointing, but thoroughly expected outcome of his last minute urge to venture off to strange lands in search of some peace in this life before he sought it in the next, it was that he could never, ever escape himself, and he was the nastiest ghoul of them all.

He heard a snippet of shouted English (the only way he could have heard it over the music), and snapped his eyes open. There was a gentleman sitting at the bar across the room. John's eyes were drawn there first, like a magnet. His back was to John, but it looked . . . familiar. So achingly familiar. The one who had shouted, however, looked in no way familiar. He was facing both John and the other man. Brown hair, heavy set, a beard – looked more like a pirate than anything. The man who faced away from John, that man, was lithe and draped over his chair like a cat. Curly hair, shorter, the color was all wrong, but –

John signaled for his waiter, garbling enough Spanglish together to pay for his meal and get his card back, before standing up from the table. He half turned towards the bar, thinking, _just a peak_, but he stopped himself.

He wasn't doing it again. This was what he had been trying to avoid in England. This was why he never left his flat. Because the back of somebody's head, or their hands, or the way that they moved always stirred him to action, and every time he grabbed the shoulder of some ghost, he'd be faced with a larger nose. Brown eyes. Mouth too small. Each and every time it was never _him_, but John would see him everywhere just the same. Just like now. Two ghosts. Two ghosts he'd never escape, not even on the other side of the world.

And so he left. He had a plane to catch in the morning, and another, less populated island nation to explore tomorrow. He had no time to be chasing ghosts that couldn't stay home where they belonged.

* * *

The airport he flew into was the same airport he was flying out of. The only difference was the size of the plane he was boarding and where he was boarding it from. First of all, he was actually on the tarmac, looking at it and waiting to board, standing with a small group of people. There wasn't any connectors from the building to _this_ plane.

The plane that had taken him from New York to San Juan was not nearly as big as the one he had taken from London. That one had been huge. The one he'd taken from the states was what he considered a normal sized airplane. The one he was staring at right now? That was supposed to carry him two hours from here to the island of Barbados?

"Looks like a greyhound bus with wings! Ugh. We're all gonna _die_," mock-wailed someone behind him. He only figured it was a mock wail because whoever it was burst into giggles right after.

John blinked, and turned to look at the woman. She was short, shorter than him, with golden dread-locks, a tan, and clothes that looked like they were found at the local thrift store, but probably cost a decent amount of money, what with the fashions these days.

She had on a back pack and carried a _huge_ red cooler in her hands that looked like it should be heavier than what she let on. She had taken duct tape to it, too. It looked liked she had taken a roll and gone round and round the huge container, which was covered in stickers, all with some sort of nature or politically liberal theme. Quirky. Definitely a quirky one.

"Yes, quite," he agreed, then held out his hand for her to shake. "I'm John."

He had no idea why he initiated the conversation, let alone offered his hand. It was bizarrely uncharacteristic of the man he'd become these past months. If he was honest with himself, he didn't want to invite the company, preferring his own counsel, but there was just something about the girl, some – feeling – coating his throat, that made him stick out his hand.

The young woman – she looked no older than her early twenties – smiled and took his hand.

"Samantha. It's a pleasure. Small planes are never fun. So bumpy. Are you from Great Britain? I love the accent."

"Yes, London, actually. American?"

"Si, Si. You got it in one. I'm from Tennessee, though I've been in the Caribbean for a few years. Ever heard of it? Tennessee?" she asked, and her grin was playful. John liked her. She was cheeky, and reminded him of his sister when she had been younger, less damaged.

"Elvis lived there," said John, in answer to Samantha's question.

Samantha laughed. "That's what everyone knows about Tennessee. That, Jack Daniels, and Dolly Parton. I don't even like Elvis that much. Only his Christmas music. Now Bob Marley – there's some good music. A little Grateful Dead, Tom Petty – I can even get into a little dubstep now and then. Not that old hound dog stuff, though. Too worn out. So what kind of music are you in to?"

John's lip twitched. He'd found a talker. "I've been listening to too much classical lately, to tell the truth. Probably far too much. I should really start listening to more Marley. It's less depressing."

This delighted another laugh out of Samantha, who apparently thought him 'funny' and his accent was 'so cool to listen to, man.' And 'Say something _distinctly_ British, _please_.'

Such an odd girl.

She insisted on sitting next to him on the plane.

John liked her. This was the first normal conversation he'd had in months. There was nothing black or ugly lurking over their words. It was . . . nice. Refreshing in a way he hadn't realized it could be. He was polite and held his arm out in invitation for her to take the window seat. She beamed at him. No one had beamed at him in ages. It felt good.

He marveled at how energized he felt as he talked along with her through whatever came to mind. She had no idea who he was and didn't know a thing about what had happened all those months ago. She talked to him without any underlying sense of duty. She sought his company simply because she wanted too.

He felt embarrassingly grateful.

When Samantha informed him that she was an artist, he wasn't in the least bit shocked. She looked artsy, and that would explain that bizarre duct-taped cooler of hers. According to Samantha, her art was deep and moving and dark and _meaningful _in ways that might be hard for someone of John's generation to really comprehend. He chose not to take offense, of course, as any gentleman would, but pressed his lips together in passing displeasure. He wasn't bloody _old_. Did she think he was old?

John shook his head, just the slightest bit to clear his thoughts. She didn't notice.

He learned that Samantha was traveling to Barbados for business, although she never said what sort she was in, always skirting the topic when it came up. The John Watson who ran with the world's only consulting detective once upon a time couldn't help but wonder why she was so fishy about it all. But mostly he ignored that part of him.

When the conversation came to him, John was vague. Just a traveler. No family except a sister. Doctor, but didn't practice. Retired, practically, ("Wow, you're so young!") and just looking for, well, he said adventure. What he really meant was something closer to closure, but he wasn't about to get into any of that with a pretty girl who seemed too upbeat to be hoarding any angsty, existentialistic works of art in her giant cooler.

When the left wing somehow caught on fire, Samantha sucked in a quick breath, but didn't scream like some of the passengers. John felt numb, shocked, like he couldn't connect what he was seeing with reality. And when the front of the plane tipped, and he knew for sure that the plane was going down, Samantha's small hand found his, her grip as desperate as he felt.

"Don't let go," she said, voice shaking but no tears. She had closed her eyes and was trembling..

"I won't," promised John, and he wished he could close his eyes too, as terror and adrenaline pumped madly through his blood, but they stayed firmly open, because he was a man who greeted death, and if Sherlock could fall with open arms, then John could fall with open eyes.

There wasn't enough time for ruminating, and he only had enough of it to tighten his grip on Samantha's hand and think that this was a bloody _awful _way to die. That he should have gone ahead and done himself in with those sleeping pills or that fucking bullet that he'd turned away from his head at the last minute, wasting it in the wall. Fucking crap telly. He could have saved himself this fate if only he'd –

And now, now at the very end, when his death was imminent and so much more real than any moment he'd put that gun to his head in London – now it hit him, as sudden as the plane's descent, that he _didn't want to die_. Not now. Possibly never had. But it was too late to explore this epiphany or deduce any of his dark jumbled feelings. He was about to die. Really, truly die.

And this had been such a_ fucking stupid idea _to begin with, _fucking telly_, and – oh God, no, _please_, not like this! _Please_ don't let me die. _Sherlock – ! _

And then the plane hit the water, and everything fell apart, like ripped paper. The plane skidded on the water, hitting once, tearing off the front, and flipping them over, smacking the middle, and tearing it away too, amongst the roar and waves and screams. People went flying.

John and Samantha managed to stay in their chairs through both impacts, and the back section was the last to hit the water before everything and everyone was torn and scattered. Samantha's hand, miraculously still in his after the initial impact, tore out of his hand violently, and all he knew was pain, before being submerged in water, tumbling round and round, having no idea which way was up and in so much pain that he almost didn't care.

With no little amount of surprise, his head broke the surface, and he gasped in air. He blinked rapidly, treading water and coughing up briny water. There was water in his lungs and the waves were big and slapped him in the face. Wreckage was everywhere. So were bodies. Parts of bodies. He didn't see anyone moving but him. There was water in his eyes, and the span of the wreckage must have been pretty long (they had skidded the water, _God_, how many times?).

It couldn't just be him, surely to God it wasn't just him. There had to be someone else out there. Where was Samantha? Why couldn't he hear anyone? Did she survive the crash? Did anyone survive?

"SAMAN-!" his mouth filled with salt water as a wave washed over his head. He spluttered and coughed, feeling every hack burn across his chest, neurons screaming in white hot pain, shooting up and down his extremities like bottle rockets. The plane had hit the water so _hard_.

But he wouldn't forgive himself if he didn't try.

He drew a long, rattling breath. "SAMANTHA!"

Nothing. No one called back.

A wave pulled him under, and he fought back up to the surface, gasping. He was going to die out here.

The waves were big, blocking his view of his surroundings and circling him almost like great moving hills. The sky was overcast, wind whipping, and it looked like it would storm, but it hadn't started yet. There was just the promise of it. The wind added to the wave's anger, and John fought to keep his head above water.

He spied something red, floating in the water, and instantly recognized his savior. Samantha's duct-taped cooler. He swam to it, with everything he could muster, noting that he miraculously didn't feel like he had broken anything, even if blood ran down his head freely, and his body felt like he'd been crushed by a speeding lorry.

John hefted his upper body onto the cooler – it was big enough that only his arms and legs hung over. He lay on his belly, holding on to Samantha's cooler by it's sides, and riding the waves as they came. He tried to call for Samantha, but his voice was rough and the wind carried it away just as soon as it left him. Sometimes, when he felt like picking his head up, he'd search around him for anything or anyone, but there was nothing but wreckage now, that quietly floated away, as he did from it.

It started to rain. Nothing dramatic, but it was still windy and he felt cold, numb, even if he was in tropical waters, the wind cut right through his wet clothes.

John couldn't tell how long he'd been hanging on to the cooler. He kept drifting in and out of consciousness, and felt very sick. Like he was going to puke. He may have, at some point. Part of him, the part that wasn't clinging or choking or shivering from the constant deluge of rain and wave, diagnosed himself with a concussion.

At one point, he had fallen off the cooler when a particularly nasty wave had tossed him and the cooler over, and he'd had to swim to catch it, once again surprising himself by not drowning. And once he'd hefted himself back on, he stayed as awake as he possibly could until the waves calmed and the storm passed – could have been hours, no telling really. Nevertheless, the sun was setting, painting the sated storm clouds in tones of gold and dusky pink.

It was silent all around him.

The storm had scattered most everything away. There was nothing to suggest that there had been a plane crash. Then again, he'd probably floated off a ways from where they'd landed. The ocean had done a bang up job of swallowing the evidence.

John was alone in a sea of flat gray, with the sun setting, and rolling clouds that reflected on the surface of the water as if it were a great silver mirror.

He half feared sharks, but he never saw any. Only a sea turtle. Plenty of flying fish, which had been startling at first, until John identified them, remembered seeing a few on the boat tours he'd taken in San Juan.

Night came. John slept in fitful spurts and tried not to drown. He was getting dehydrated, and his concussion was making him a little loopy. All he could think about was that he hated drowning. He hadn't done it, but he knew he'd hate it, and so he held on to Samantha's cooler. And sometimes it was her hand that he held. Other times, it was Sherlock's. Either way, he wasn't going to let go, because he knew that if he did, he would die, and he didn't want to die. Not really. Even if he wanted to die so badly it hurt, he decided he didn't want to die, if that made sense, which it didn't. Nothing made sense anymore. The only solid thought he could hang on to was that he _hated_ drowning. Seen too many victims. Knew how it was such a _bloody awful_ way to die.

Sometime during the night, his bed stopped moving, but his head kept swimming.

* * *

Whew. That one was hard to get out. Drop me a line. I'll be listening.


	4. Chapter 4

**a/n: **I just wanted to thank everyone who has reviewed so far, especially those responding to my last A/N, and those who've sent me private messages. I rarely log in to my account unless I'm putting up a chapter, so I might be behind on the PMs, but thank you all, all the same. I'm ... here? Lol, yep. Still here. But seriously you guys. I've been on this site for over ten years now, and it's never felt more like home. Thank you.

As always, not beta'd. :P

* * *

_"It is a curious thing, the death of a loved one. We all know that our time in this world is limited, and that eventually all of us will end up underneath some sheet, never to wake up. And yet it is always a surprise when it happens to someone we know. It is like walking up the stairs to your bedroom in the dark, and thinking there is one more stair than there is. Your foot falls down, through the air, and there is a sickly moment of dark surprise as you try and readjust the way you thought of things."_

― Lemony Snicket

* * *

**_Of Islands and Men_**

Chapter Four

* * *

"Sea foam green, is it? Now that's a lovely idea," said Mycroft, flipping his fork and knife over and setting them at the four o'clock position on his plate. It was immediately cleared away.

Disdain flashed across Stephen Harper's face.

"Lovely," agreed Stephen.

_His ears twitch when he lies. _

The amusement that Mycroft found in this observation flared quick and took him by surprise. He had seen funnier tells before, yet he was hard pressed to keep his lips from quirking at this one. Perhaps it was the stress of the past week or just that Stephen Harper looked silly with his toupee-like hair cut and perpetual wiggly ears. Regardless, his face remained impassive as always. It would be rude to smirk in the Canadian prime minister's face. That sort of behavior (and worse) was best saved for his brother.

"A brilliant sea foam green for Rachel's room, darling, and oh, what colors would compliment that color green? Perhaps we can find a shade of pink. Or purple. Hmm, oh, it will be perfect no matter what! I can just picture it. Won't it be perfect, Stephen?"

"Mm, yes dear. Perfect."

"But we've yet to find a crib," Laureen said, turning back to Mycroft and huffing a breath, almost laughing, but catching herself just before. Mycroft deduced that she had an unusually loud laugh and would censor herself when she was in public so not to embarrass herself or her husband. How bland.

"That's why I told Stephen I was coming with him to London this time around, even if I'm as big as a barn. We're planning on finding a crib here, but I haven't decided if I want to look into antique cribs or have something commissioned down in SOHO."

"We're here through the weekend, dear. We'll have all day Saturday to find one," assured Stephen.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, you wouldn't happen to know any decent places around London, would you?" asked Laureen, her smile expectant.

He permitted himself a small, polite chuckle. "No, Mrs. Harper. I'm afraid I don't. I've never had need to look into it."

"Well, I suppose I'll just have to search the internet for some recommendations then," said Laureen, her fingers twitching. Canadians were a twitchy sort it seemed.

Mycroft could tell she wanted to do a search on her phone right then and there, but she was at lunch in one of the nicest restaurants in London, and even if their luncheon was informal, it was all still politics. Laureen Harper, as grudging as it was, recognized more so than many politician's wives the need for self containment and tact both in and out of the public eye. She had to be on her best behavior – ruefully, observed Mycroft.

"We can always ask the concierge at the hotel, dear," said Stephen, the majority of his attention held firmly by the eggs benedict in front of him.

"You really think the concierge would know where to find antique baby beds?" asked Laureen, in a tone that suggested she thought anything but.

Stephen shrugged, and gave his wife a sideways look, tinged with exasperation before looking back down to his eggs. "Well, I don't know, Laureen. But we'll never know if we don't ask."

She smashed her lips together. "I'm sure I'll have found something by the time we get back to the hotel. I'll google it in the car."

Mycroft found himself looking forward to the end of this engagement. Meals with politicians (and their wives) were always so tedious. It was one of few regretful responsibilities his position required of him. Usually, he managed to get out of them. But he and Canada's prime minister had been haggling over a trade tariff for three days. Best to play nice.

Mycroft kept one ear on the regrettable conversation as his attention was drawn to the waiter. He held out his hand over his glass, shaking his head when the man made to refill his drink.

"Very good, sir," murmured the waiter, who then turned and refilled Laureen's glass. Between listening to the prime minister and his wife bicker and watching the waiter flitter around their table, Mycroft missed his assistant's entrance, and only noticed her presence once the waiter, who was turning to leave, had to dodge Anthea to keep from spilling his water pitcher.

"Pardon me, ma'dam!" exclaimed the waiter, before flittering off.

Anthea ignored him.

It was her face that made him still. There was something wrong. He could tell it the moment their eyes met. Laureen (the nattering harpy) stopped mid-sentence and blinked up at Anthea along with Stephen, both never having seen her before and no doubt wondering who she was and what she wanted.

She came to his side, leaned down, and cupped her mouth against his ear.

"I'm sorry sir – it's code nine," she whispered, regret heavy in her voice. She took a step back and waited.

The resultant molten dread that crawled through his veins upon her words left him feeling ill. His chest tightened, and his breathing shallowed. He could feel the adrenaline spike through his system, fight overcoming flight, as the meaning of code nine screeched through his head like a freight train. He was beginning to panic. Recognizing this, he reined himself back and deepened his breathes.

Outwardly, his face didn't so much as twitch. He stood from the table.

"Mr. and Mrs. Harper, it has been a pleasure to have dined with you, but I am afraid something of immediate importance has been brought to my attention. Mrs. Harper, I do hope your search through London proves fruitful. Stephen, I'll send you my counter-proposal next week. I apologize for having to cut our time short. Good day," Mycroft nodded, before turning away, ignoring anything the prime minister or his wife said after him.

"I've brought the car around, sir," said Anthea, her voice softened so only he would hear her as they walked through the restaurant and out the door.

"Tell me what happened," he demanded, ignoring the doorman who called out some sort of servantile rot behind them. He grabbed the car handle and pulled open the door, throwing his umbrella inside without ceremony.

Anthea met his eyes over the car. "Sir . . ."

He could see the swirling cocktail of empathy and sympathy in her expression. He didn't want her looking at him like that, so he looked away.

She shook her head slightly, as if shaking away a bad thought, and followed him into the car.

"He jumped from the roof of St. Bart's. We're heading there now," said Anthea, as soon as her door was closed and the car was in motion.

He closed his eyes briefly, not being able to stop the sudden image of his brother as a splattered stain of bone and flesh on the sidewalk. Good God. How many stories was that? He could barely even think as something cold settled in his chest.

Sherlock, Sherlock, oh God, Sherlock, what have you done? _What have you done?_

He refused to believe it.

* * *

The body was cool to the touch.

It was undeniably his brother, and part of Mycroft balked at the feel of Sherlock's cold cheek, yet he was compelled to touch him just the same – if only to assure himself that what lay cooling on the mortician's slab before him was real. The blood had been cleaned away, but he could easily see where his little brother's skull had hit the pavement.

Dead.

Sherlock was dead.

He closed his eyes against the thought, his entire being rebelling against the very notion, yet the reality remained, stark and chilling in a way that left him feeling entirely, _entirely_ lost.

Pushing everything down, Mycroft collected himself, and drew up the sheet to Sherlock's chin, pausing long enough to regard his brother's face one last time. It was drawn and pale, and a memory of his brother at fourteen, precocious and bratty and utterly sick with pneumonia and begging Mycroft not to leave him alone drudged itself up and lodged somewhere at the base of his throat. His heart beat a painful staccato against his ribs in response.

He expected to stand here years ago, identifying his brother's drug ravaged body. Or perhaps after his brother had gotten himself killed on one of his gallivanting misadventures. Never had he expected this. Suicide – it was illogical. Sherlock would never have committed suicide, if only by virtue of his own narcissism.

None of this sat right with Mycroft. Of course, it wouldn't sit right with him regardless as long as Sherlock lay before him, stiller and more quiet than he had ever been in life. Yet here was some sort of frustratingly indistinct feeling nagging him, but he couldn't collect his thoughts to find out why with Sherlock looking like that. So very dead. He let it be for now, his fingers ghosting just one more time across his little brother's cool face in a caress more affectionate than affirming.

He pulled the sheet over Sherlock's curls, his hand hovering, as if he wanted to pull the sheet back and check again, as if the body would magically transform into a stranger and he'd be able to breath again.

He let the sheet fall from his hand. The temptation was masochistic.

Sherlock's nose tented the sheet, he noted, somewhat disdaining the cheap cloth hiding his brother. He'd broken that nose once. When they were children, so long ago now. The chill of childhood memories tainted with death seeped into him, and he shivered.

Molly Harper stood meek and quiet behind him.

"Has John already been here?" he asked, his eyes not leaving Sherlock's only discernible feature under the stark sheet.

When the answer was not immediate, he turned his head and sought her out. The poor thing was positively trembling.

Molly nodded, her bottom lip a quiver. She bit it to make it stop. "Y-yes. He was -" she paused, looking for the right word. "He was _devastated_. Could barely even look at h-him."

Mycroft expected as much, knowing how much his brother meant to the man, and knowing how endeared the doctor was to his brother.

"I'll make arrangements for the body tomorrow morning," said Mycroft.

"Alright," Molly said, her voice watery, as she avoided his eyes.

He left before she could start crying.

* * *

He was just fine up until 12:13 AM.

That was when he shattered the decanter of brandy against the flagstone in his bathroom.

He could feel little shards of glass splash his bare feet as the bottle exploded upon impact. There was a good chance he'd get a shard stuck somewhere, but that didn't stop him from sinking down to his knees. A sharp wail pierced the silence, sharper than the sound of of breaking glass, and it was animalistic in its agony.

Control was a fine commodity indeed.

But he was completely out of it.

* * *

The funeral was small. His mother sat beside him and squeezed his hand hard, blinking tears down her soft, wrinkled face and muffling her low cries in her silk handkerchief.

The casket was black, shiny, and trimmed in gold. Just like the headstone Mummy had picked out. It was closed, of course. Sherlock's head wound had been too obvious to cover up, and his mother's constitution was weak.

He stood up and said a few words for Sherlock. He'd practiced them – measuring out the words and tasting the adjectives on his tongue before he'd found the right ones. He felt foggy and slow standing in front of the funeral goers, having his dead brother to his back. He was intensely aware of the casket throughout his entire speech, and it made the back of his neck tingle knowing his brother was in a box, behind him, dead, and about to be buried in the ground.

There had never been a time in his life where he hadn't been intensely aware of Sherlock's presence. Why would it be different now? By the time he'd sat back down with his mother, he'd half forgotten even getting up at all.

John spoke. Mycroft didn't hear a word.

* * *

His brother had been murdered. This, of course, sat better with him than suicide.

It took a few days after the funeral for Mycroft to engage with the world again, but once he'd gotten his mind straightened out and broken a few more expensive decanters, he'd seen that truth well enough.

James Moriarty was dead. He died with Sherlock, his brain splattering the rooftop of St. Bart's while Sherlock was busy throwing himself off of it. Forensics had confirmed that Moriarty shot himself before Sherlock jumped.

Why?

He mulled over the question for a week, but only after he'd settled his brother's will. Everything to John – the trust fund, the summer home in southern Spain, and all his worldly possessions - not surprising. What was surprising was that Sherlock had the forethought to update his will at all. A little over a month ago . . . had Sherlock known his time was short? Had he been planning for this turn of events for some weeks before?

More than likely, Mycroft admitted to himself. This was Sherlock after all. He'd probably known when he was going to die down to the very minute. Or, realistically, it would have been his last resort should he not be able to find a way out of whatever he'd gotten himself into. Obviously, his brother had failed. Just as he himself had failed his brother.

He shook the feeling away. Sentiment would make him foggy and disconnected. He needed to be sharp. He needed to find out what had happened to his little brother.

It haunted him. Sherlock would never have committed suicide without being grossly provoked. Moriarty dead on the rooftop proved it. Somehow, Moriarty's suicide ensured that Sherlock would jump. So it could have been prevented, whatever it was that Moriarty had hanging over Sherlock's head, but Moriarty held all the cards. He'd been in the game to win – no matter the cost, and his actions in turn prompted Sherlock's - just as Moriarty wanted.

But how did Moriarty make Sherlock jump to his death? What hold did the madman have over his brother?

It frustrated him that the answers remained elusive.

* * *

He had his best men and women on the job, but trying to find anyone connected to the late consulting criminal proved difficult.

It took four months before Mikhail Dorendorf was sat before his best interrogator. It took two hours before Mikhail was spilling everything he knew. Mycroft observed the sweating man with interest, fingers steeping beneath his nose, from behind the one way mirror.

"Three assassins. One for the cop, the doctor, and the old lady. I was supposed to take out the cop if Holmes didn't kill himself. I don't know who had the other two. The man who contracted me for jobs was a representative of Moriarty's, and I only saw him once. Just got assignments from then on. Didn't even give me his name. That's all I know, I swear."

Mycroft's gut clenched. Ah. So that was what got you in the end, little brother. Sentiment.

How ironic.

Nevertheless, his theory was confirmed. It didn't make him feel any better.

The questioning continued for another hour before Anthea came up beside his chair. "Richardson believes we've gotten everything we can out of him. What would you have done with him, sir?"

Mycroft smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.

"Dispose of him."

* * *

John Watson was dead.

The news came as a bit of a shock to him, Mycroft would admit. A plane crash in the Caribbean. There had been no survivors. A flicker of guilt was repressed as soon as it was brought up. It would do him no good, yet he regretted not keeping up with the doctor over the past year like he should have – like Sherlock would have wanted him to. The guilt flared again. He ignored it.

He, of course, did a little digging on the matter. The pictures of the crash made him melancholy. This was John Watson's gave. He'd have never thought that life would take such a turn for the friends who lived at Baker street. It hadn't been all that long ago that both of them were alive and well...

Mycroft sighed, and pushed the file away from him.

It was impossible to know why the plane crashed. It remained as much a mystery to the Puerto Riccans as it did to him, but no foul play was suspected, unless it happened aboard. Nevertheless, it was written off by all those involved as a horrific accident, likely due to the mechanics, and the case was closed.

According to John's therapist, the doctor hadn't been able to shake himself out of the depression he'd fallen into upon Sherlock's death. The therapist had offered up the suggestion of a holiday for some months before John boarded the doomed plane. It had been a surprise to everyone when he'd announced his trip out west, but his therapist, Mrs. Hudson, and Harriet Watson had all been encouraged.

All for naught. The good doctor was dead.

Still, Mycroft hadn't known the depth of John's suffering. He'd assumed John would grieve, of course he would have, but then Mycroft expected him to shuffle towards acceptance, maybe find a serious girlfriend or get married. Move on.

221B Baker Street told a different story.

He stood in Sherlock's former home amid a flurry of activity. His people moved with perfect proficiency around the small flat-share, boxing and wrapping and packing.

John's sister had already been by and collected what personal affects she wanted, and Mycroft honestly didn't know what to do with the rest of it. It seemed somewhat sacrilegious to donate or toss it all in with the rubbish so soon after his brother and John's death. Therefore, he was having the whole lot of it sent to storage. He'd figure something out later.

The bottles of unopened pills lined up with care in the medicine cabinet, along with the new bullet hole in the wall, and not to mention the other tells in the flat, painted a picture that Mycroft could see all to easy. If the plane crash hadn't of killed John Watson, something else would have.

Mycroft would have put his money on the sleeping pills.

* * *

It was the gentle _push-pull_ of the tide that woke him. The sun hung low in the sky, and it was early. Seagulls screamed on the horizon, diving into the water, then shooting back up to the sky. Blood was dried to the side of his head, and he lifted his arm, half wet with ocean and heavy as hell, and wiped at the rusty flecks, eyes drawn to the screaming seagulls – the only movement or sound he could discern besides the waves.

The skin on his forehead was raw, and a very small part of him that wasn't marveling at his continued existence (he _really_ should be dead), was trying to figure out exactly where he was and why he felt so sun burnt.

The sand and the salt water and the seagulls should have been enough to clue him in, but it was only after he'd managed to sit up (and damned if there wasn't sand slathered in every crevice of his body) and look around did he realize that he was on an island. He had washed up on an island – Christ. It was like that god awful Tom Hank's movie but ten times worse because it was real and happening to him. That, and he didn't have anything to make a suitable Wilson out of.

John groaned. He was going barmy already.

He hoped the island wasn't as small as the tiny ones he'd seen while on the boat tour in Puerto Rico. If it was, he'd be dead within the week.

He panicked at the thought and threw his head around to look behind him – white sand gave way to tall grass which gave way to palm trees and other tropical fauna, tangled and darkened enough to suggest depth. Trees. Palm trees. Maybe he wouldn't starve to death after all. He could see full bushels of coconuts hanging low from many of them. The relief was so powerful, it left him feeling heady. Some of these blasted islands were composed of only rock and dead coral. He was lucky to have washed up on this one. He might actually have a chance to survive until help comes – if help comes.

John almost laughed, the thought having caught him by surprise (he'd been so eager to die lately that this struck him as funny), but his guffaws coalesced into wheezes, and he rolled over in the sand and surf, vomiting bright yellow stomach bile and sea water.

John gave himself another few minutes once he'd stopped heaving to catch his breath and find his wits. Then he made himself get off the ground. Fuck, he was dizzy. John took a few heaving breaths before straightening his spine.

The first thing he noticed was that the beach he was on was rather small. He felt a trickle of trepidation, but it eased once he looked towards the interior of the island. Just as he suspected from his once over, the island was bigger than what he thought. Beyond the tall grass was a tangle of palm trees and tropical plants, thin in some places, with sunshine coming through the leaves and hitting the ground in patches, until the underbrush thickened and grew dark.

He couldn't tell how big the island was. The beach he was on was small, shaped like a crescent, cradling the ocean in a bent C shape, with craggy rocks framing either side of the beach. If he followed the rocky shoreline, it met with the trees, tall grass and built up seaweed in between.

He stumbled his first few steps. His whole body ached fiercely (his head, most especially), but it was his shoulder that hurt the worst. It pulled taught when he moved, setting his neurons on fire. He had to sit down again. No chairs, he noticed, then shook his head. Of course there weren't any chairs.

The sun was rising, and with it, the temperature. Paying little mind to his legs (both of them hurt), John picked his way through the tall grass to seek refuge from the sun under a palm. He let his back rest against the smooth trunk and stared out past the small dunes of seaweed and grass to the ocean beyond. No ships. No sign of life or neighboring islands. Nothing. No one. Just a few screaming seagulls and varied hues of flat blue.

It took a moment for it all to catch up to him, and when it did, he couldn't quite wrap his mind around it. The plane crashed. That's how he'd come to be here. He'd survived a bloody plane crash, and had somehow washed up ashore, clinging to a big red cooler. The girl – Samantha – was probably dead.

John squinted his eyes. Everything was a bit fuzzy when it came to the actual crash. As should be expected. That was normal. Most people had trouble recalling accidents, but still, he could clearly remember the aftermath. There had been so many bodies, and he knew he'd be one of them if he hadn't of clung to that cooler.

Despair and guilt stirred, fitting like a well worn hat. It should have been Samantha to survive, not him. He'd been willing to throw his life away for months, and she had been so young, with so much of life left to live. It was bloody unfair for everyone.

Almost like a premonition, he'd noticed so suddenly, something red caught his eye on the other end of the beach, washed up towards the rocks. The cooler. He felt a chill, even though the temperature was becoming dreadfully warm, knowing that the girl who owned that cooler was dead (how couldn't she be?), and he'd used it to save his own life while she succumbed to the waves. The guilt gnawed like a starved dog.

He should have died in the crash, or drowned after, not her. Least ways, he should have left the cooler alone. If he had, maybe she would have found it. Maybe it would be her sitting against a palm tree, wondering how the hell she'd gotten there, nursing her scrapes and bruises, but still _alive_.

John had never been one to give into tears, but he could feel them prickle, escaping, fueled by his frustration, pain, and the overwhelming feeling of being trapped. He kept reminding himself that he shouldn't cry. He'd just get more dehydrated. But the tears wouldn't stop coming. He choked on them, and he was sure he made a pretty sight.

He was sun burnt and bruised and scraped and torn and crying. He was in the worst sort of shock, and now that he wasn't fighting for his life, it had all come crashing down on him – the reality of his situation, which was bizarre and utterly hopeless in a way that John couldn't handle right then.

And John Watson, brave army man that he may be, let the tears fall because he couldn't very well stifle them. He just didn't understand how this could have happened to him. Not that the plane had crashed or that he was marooned on a deserted island – he fully comprehended that, but that he hadn't died before he found himself here in the first place – at the lost opportunity. Now he bloody well had to live with it. Literally. Because there was no pills on this island, and he most certainly wouldn't be able to stand starving to death.

_I should have gone with the sodding gun after all. _He thought, with no little despair, and then immediately shelved the thought. It was pointless anyway. So were the tears.

He wiped at his rough face, smearing sand and reigning in all of the soppy emotions. He wasn't a sodding girl. He was Captain John Watson, MD, formerly a soldier in Her Majesty's army, and by God he would stop all these bloody feelings right this very minute. They weren't good for his head. Not when he had to find water and shelter.

And with that thought held firm, He arched his back against the palm tree bit by bit, using it to support the majority of his weight and help him to his feet. It was time to see what was in that big red cooler.

* * *

**a/n: **Wow. I'm always on my iPhone when I'm fanfictioning. They've made the review window down there just so...accessible. Hmmm. It makes you almost want to ... say a little something... doesn't it?

ALSO, I will give major major MAJOR props to ANYONE who can even remotely guess what's in the cooler. **HINT:** you'll never guess, but it's awfully...plotty? SMELLY? Well, it helps the plot, anyway. LOL.


End file.
